


Induction

by OwlFlight



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: 4th Ed, Clan Assamite, Clan Brujah, Clan Cappadocian, Clan Gangrel, Clan Lasombra, Clan Malkavian, Clan Nosferatu, Clan Ravnos, Clan Setite, Clan Toreador, Clan Tremere, Clan Tzimisce, Clan Ventrue, Gen, Lore - Freeform, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Over Ten Years Old, Poetry, Unreliable Narrator, Vampire Clans, Vampire the Masquerade: Dark Ages, please be kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25821136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlFlight/pseuds/OwlFlight
Summary: An introduction to the thirteen classic vampire Clans of Vampire: The Masquerade, as relaid by an exceptionally unreliable narrator.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Induction

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this literally more then ten years ago, and I wrote it more for the fun of it then for the literary quality thereof. So I guess all that I’m saying is - be kind?

Some stalk the hills the sidhe have fled, their magiks free for all.  
Some seize the prize their sires stole, their fangs so quick to fall.  
So dine with them in revelry, or dance in the Great Game  
But childe, don’t ever, ever let them know your secret name. 

Oh, gold and gems and sceptered rings; a lesson here to learn.  
The more they own, the more they thirst – nay, more then long for, _burn._  
Their glory’s in the crown and throne, the coffers they can fill –  
But childe, don’t ever fall beneath ‘his lordship’s’ poisoned will.

The shadows are our eldest friend; theirs is the sweetest song  
Of power and pride and briny coast, of Abyss swelling strong  
Of the noonday night, the emptiness the stars once sang awake -  
Don’t ever tread the boundaries that the shadow-dwellers break.

Rats and rust and hoarded rot – the refuse of our kind.  
The lepers wield thorny strings; each restless eye is blind.  
Their worth is in the wonder that their horror can’t chase away –  
Don’t dare to judge by what they are, or by what others say. 

The poet-kinds of deadened years remember Carthage well.  
The standard bright of reddened white; they fought and fed and fell.  
Their memories stretch vast and deep, they fight, but not to win.  
And childe, don’t ever dare insult the honor of their kin. 

Steel and smoke and dusty sky – the ashen taste of fear  
As shadows slide throughout all the night, their deadly purpose clear.  
Their passion lies within the vein, although it’s judged as weak -  
Oh childe, don’t ever find yourself the quarry that they seek.

The graveyard is a second home; it grants the sweetest sleep  
But every crypt and yawning ditch a gristly secret keep.  
A ravaged mien, a scalpel keen to pierce the shrouded lands -  
My childe, don’t ever find yourself within these seekers’ hands. 

There’s power in the sculpted hand, the modulated voice -  
The painted dancers on the stage all think theirs is the choice.  
Their muse will grant them wonders that the world would weep to see  
But childe, don’t dare mistake it for the truth of slipping free. 

Blood and blade and polished bone – their code is chill and grim.  
The very strands of life are theirs, to warp and twist and dim.  
The lords within the keep. Their foes? The screams that scrape the sky.  
Don’t cross the voivode, my dear – they will not let you die. 

The mirror is shattered past recall; the shards burn clear and bright  
As brilliant as the gibbous moon, when fools draw down the Sight.  
They see the Truth behind the Lie, the scope of all the Game –  
Don’t traffic in the secrets bartered so by the insane. 

A hound will bell throughout the night, a wolf bites back its cry.  
A glimpse of eyes, a flash of fang – the hunt that’s yet to die.  
Their silent pact of savagery shall leave them less then whole;  
Don’t bargain with the Beast, my love, on peril of your soul. 

We know the serpents as of old from cracked papyrus tombs.  
They hoard their twisted secrets in the dank and mottled gloom.  
Their tongues pour honeyed venom - theirs a god that never fell.  
Be cautious in your dealings. There is nothing they won’t sell. 

I’ve walked this wide old world a spell. I know each secret way  
Past every street and crossroad where the trickster’s children play.  
Oh, shut him in a coffin barred with forty silver locks,  
But even then, my childe, don’t you ever trust a fox.


End file.
